“She might be sleeping?” Kenan suggests, still facing the door.
“Maybe.”
I check the living room where she usually sleeps, but it’s empty and disturbingly cold, no sun rays seeping through the curtains. The rug under the couch is dark, the whorls akin to gray clouds swirling before a storm. The kitchen overlooking it is also muted, like someone watered down the colors. The uneasiness grows like vines, wrapping around my skeletal system.
“Layla,” I repeat and head down the hallway, my sneakers thudding softly against the carpet.
Shadows envelop my footsteps, and my heart is in my throat, fluttering like a baby bird. Her bedroom door is fastened shut, and I trail my fingers along the surface before deciding to check my room first.
When I creak open my door, all the while begging God for her toplease be there, I almost fall to the floor with relief.
Layla is sprawled on my covers, hugging my pillow to her chest. Her eyes are closed, her lips moving in silent prayer.
“Layla!” I cry out, and her eyes burst open, a choked sound escaping her throat.
“Salama!” she gasps. She jumps from the bed.
We collide into each other, my arms shaking as I hold her close, her hair in my mouth. But I don’t care. She’s alive and pregnant. Very much pregnant, her stomach bumping me.
She leans back, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me. “Wherewereyou?” she demands.
“A patient couldn’t be moved from their home, so I had to go there and operate. Then a fight broke out between the FSA and the military, and I couldn’t leave,” I say, breathless.
Her eyes are rimmed red, her cheeks blotchy, but she takes in a deep breath. “Okay.”
“The patient’s brother brought me home. He’s, uh, he’s here,” I say, trying to be casual.
She glances over my shoulder. “Here? As in, in our home?”
I nod.
Realization slowly dawns on her and scandalous shock is in every word. “Oh my God, Salama. Did you spend the night at a boy’s house?”
I shove her shoulder playfully and she giggles.
“Stop it,” I mutter. “I was nearly sick with worry. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
She looks at me pointedly. “You know I don’t answer unknown numbers.”
I drag a hand across my face, sighing. “Fine. Fine. Alhamdulillah you’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
“I am.”
“I have to tell Kenan you’re fine. You can say hello if you want.”
She gives me an exasperated look and points at herself. The flyaway, fiery hair, the watery eyes, and the wrinkled clothes. “Say hello looking like this? No thank you, I’d rather stay here.”
I shake my head, smiling.
Kenan still has his back to me when I walk out. My eyes trail over his broad shoulders and the casual way his hands are in his pockets as he rocks back and forth on the heels of his boots. I stop and for one minute allow myself to imagine ourmightlife in this dusty hallway. That I’m living my very own Studio Ghibli movie. That in this universe he and I have our own inside jokes, and my ring finger wears the golden band he gave me. Those thoughts make my cheeks burn, but I don’t care. I am owed this. I’m owed at least my imagination.
“Kenan,” I call. “You can turn around. Layla isn’t coming out.”
He does so slowly, his gaze still glued to the carpet.
“Is she okay?” he asks, finally meeting my eyes.
I nod.
